


Nobody Killed the Radio Stars

by dustjacket



Category: National Public Radio RPF, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Dorks in Love, Gen, M/M, National Public Radio, Phone Calls & Telephones, Radio, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustjacket/pseuds/dustjacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos visits Cecil in the studio and finds him in conversation with some familiar voices. Lots of nerdy public radio references!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Killed the Radio Stars

“Cecil?”

Carlos entered the radio station carrying several greasy paper containers. The smell emanating from the boxes was implacable, but Carlos had long ago learned not to question what was in Night Vale takeout. The studio lobby was dark except for a blue glow from underneath the intricate carved door labeled “Management” and the puce-colored iridescent mushrooms that sprouted from the carpet. An intern in a sweater-vest was staring with suspicion at the office supplies, a stick-on nametag identifying her as “Julian.” Carlos coughed. Julian didn't react, her four eyes unblinking. Carlos cleared his throat, louder this time.

“Erm, is Cecil in?”

“He’s in a phone call. Go ahead.” Julian waved a hand towards the hallway behind her, not taking her eyes from the desk and whispering, “You betrayed me _stapler_.” Carlos walked into the darkened hallway, careful not to glance in to the men’s room as he passed it. The cat had a habit of screeching at glass-shattering decibels whenever he spotted Carlos, which Cecil insisted was purring. He passed the broom closet which no one may recognize, acknowledge, or utilize (there were various cleaning supplies piled against the door which he had to step over), and turned towards the soundproof door carved with a stylized eye. Carlos smiled to himself and went inside.

Cecil was sitting with his back to the bank of recording equipment, leaning back in his rolling chair with his feet on a small desk cluttered with papers and coffee mugs. His head lolled back in a slightly unnatural fashion, and he held his phone a few inches away from his head. He smiled as Carlos came in and covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’ll be done in a minute; I’m just talking with my cousin in Minnesota.”

Carlos sat in the green-vinyl diner chair that occupied a corner of the small studio and tried to sort out what he should attempt to eat from the takeout boxes. He ran a hand through his hair and heard Cecil giggle.

“What? No, Garrison. Carlos just walked in.” Cecil paused, then leaned over and shoved the phone towards Carlos. “Garrison wants to say hello!”

Carlos took it, apprehensive. “Um, hi?”

“Would this be Carlos I am speaking to?” A soft voice came through the receiver.

“This is he.” The man sounded familiar, but Carlos couldn't begin to guess where he had heard the man before.

“Cecil has told me so much about you. So good to hear your voice, yes…yes. It reminds me of when a stranger first arrived in our small town, he did cause quite a stir, as I’m sure you’d expect. Large Swedish, Sven Sorensen. He could split a log in one strike and taught me a trick to putting pepper in your shoes to keep warm. Great men, those Swedes, hardy...hardy and strong. He and June the electrician’s daughter are getting married in the spring; it will be such a lovely wedding…just lovely… We’re such a small town out here on the edge of the prairie and we so rarely see anyone new. It makes you consider whether God exists…or if He even would be concerned with something as small as our little Lake Wobegon…. Pastor Liz always tells us that God’s concerns are not ours to consider and we should think more about not freezing to death or hitting deer on the highway… There was a full moon last night and they were just starting to take down the icehouses…” the monotone voice kept going, saying something about frozen catfish and a wintertime dance at the high school. A wave of unnatural calmness come over Carlos as the man spoke, and he could feel himself sliding down in his chair, eyes rolling towards the back of his head. Cecil looked alarmed and took the phone back.

“He does tend to go on.” The phone beeped and Cecil took his feet off the desk, careful not to upset any coffee mugs. “Garrison? Garrison! I have a call waiting. I think it may be you-know-who! Hm? Yes, he’s calling me back! What? Yes, I’ll tell him you said hello. Say hi to the gang at the Chatterbox! Hm? Yes, and Pastor Liz. Bye Garrison. What? No, no. Yes! Goodbye!” Cecil switched to the new call, grinning at Carlos. “I’m putting this next one on speaker! It’s just so exciting.”

Carlos could feel the strange lethargy leaving him and his mind flashed to an old memory of grad school and a radio tuned to NPR in a lab.

“Cecil was that Garrison Kei–” He was interrupted by a flat, nasal voice coming from the phone now lying among the papers.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Yes! Is this Ira?”

“Yes. Who is this? The voicemail you left was just static and…gurgling?”

“My bad, sometimes that happens for our outgoing calls. You know….cell towers, AT&T, all sorts of confusion.” Cecil was now leaning on the desk, skinny elbows framing the phone.

“Who am I speaking to?” the now-irritated voice asked.

“This is Cecil. From Night Vale Community Radio.”

“Cecil. From Night Vale.”

“Yes! I believe I spoke to another of your staff earlier…a Mr. Malatia? He visited us a year ago and left me his card.”

“I know who you are. Hang on a sec. Torey?!” The sound was muffled for the next few minutes, but it sounded like there was some shouting. The mysterious Ira returned.

“You have to stop calling us, Cecil.”

“But _Ira_. I have a wonderful story for your _Over My Dead Body_ show!”

“We haven’t even greenlit– how did you find out about that?!”

“Our mayor, Pamela Winchell, recently announced legislation that would allow only _dead bodies_ to run for office and govern! I personally think that this is to discourage Hiram McDaniels, who is a very much alive five-headed dragon, from running…”

“What–?”

“But the reaching implications of this are enormous! What could this mean for the growing Corpse Rights Movement? Are the citizens in the Whispering Forest technically alive? Is it only applicable if you've died _once?”_

“I–”

“Does it need to be a human corpse? Our town is up in arms about this Ira and I know there are some great sound bites to be had.”

“What in God’s name going on down there!? Ever since Torey got back his voice keeps….changing.”

“Is that _all_? Carl Kasell had the head of a fly for six months after he visited and he still sends the station new year cards.”

“We’re not–“

“Well, they’re more new year _threats._ And I’m fairly certain they’re written in Peter Sagal’s blood…”

“WE’RE NOT COMING TO NIGHT VALE.”

“Not even for a quick interview with Hiram? I know the abandoned mine shaft where he’s being held is very accommodating.”

“NO.” The line went dead. Cecil sighed and picked up the phone.

“I still want to call Terry Gross before it gets to late…what time is it in Philadelphia?”

“Cecil.” Carlos rose from his chair and put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Eat. Your um…food is getting cold.”

Cecil took the slightly quivering takeout box and stared out of the small window at the darkening plain of the desert, a far-off gaze in his third eye. “I just want everyone to know about Night Vale.”

Carlos smiled and pulled his chair closer, pushing the cell phone towards the back of the desk. “Someday they will, I’m sure of it.”

Cecil moved his legs so they rested on Carlos’ lap and blushed bright blue. “You do always know just what to say.”

Cecil managed to sneak some mysterious piece of meat from his takeout box into Carlos’ mouth while the scientist wasn't paying attention. It tasted like chicken, which definitely meant that it was something else entirely. Carlos tapped his fingers against Cecil’s knee as he chewed.

“You know…” Carlos said, “you could give _RadioLab_ a call.”

**Author's Note:**

> Garrison Keillor is the host and creator of "Prairie Home Companion," and he was speaking from the fictional radio city of Lake Wobegon.  
> Ira Glass and Torey Malatia are the host and co-creator of "This American Life."  
> Terry Gross is the host of "Fresh Air."  
> Carl Kasell and Peter Sagal are the announcer and host of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me."  
> "RadioLab" is an awesome program created and hosted by Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich, both of whom would be terribly interested in Night Vale.
> 
> Remember to pledge to your local public radio station! Unless, of course, your pledge system is involuntary, mandatory, and run by Eldritch beasts. Then they'll remember to pledge for you.


End file.
